Secretly
by PityComesTooLate
Summary: Christine leaves Erik broken and alone. The mob is coming, but nevertheless, Erik stays behind.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Secretly

Theme: Choices

Pairings: E/C, some C/R

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer; I don't own it, so don't sue me.

Version: A small bit of Leroux's version, yet Gerard is still the sex.

A look of what might have happened had Erik had chosen to stay at the end of "Down Once More". Much angst. Much, much angst.

_You alone can make my song take flight_

_It's over now, the music of the night._

And then she was gone, fading from his sight, leaving him in his hell. His creation. His muse. His mask. Her white train fluttered in the breeze of the tunnel, like angel wings. An angel's descent from hell. And in that moment, an overwhelming sense of loss fell upon him. The grief and loss promised to destroy him, and he felt the flame in his soul extinguish. Holding his mask, the very symbol of his deformity, in his cold hands, he slipped once more, into the deep pit of self-loathing. He hated himself for what he could not offer her. He, the infamous Phantom of the Opera. He, the murderous animal with the hideous face. He had been so quick to follow Christine's childish beliefs that he was "The Angel of Music". He didn't dare tell her his real name, Erik. A name known to little, and one which he had not heard uttered to him in years. Hot tears ran down his abhorrent face. First, tears of hate, his hatred of Raoul's love for Christine. The foolish young boy would never show her the beauty that he had offered her. But Raoul would make Christine much happier that Erik ever would. The young vicomte offered his wealth, his handsome looks, his good nature…To imagine Christine as the silent It pained Erik too much to think of it. He screamed in agonizing fury. It is hard to grasp that the soul can bleed so much, but Erik's soul had bled since the first time his mother laid her eyes upon the child's repulsive face. Erik wept at the memory of the way she had screamed. It echoed in his mind everyday upon the moment he woke. And finally, he wept over the loss of his Christine. The woman who had called him out of darkness with her voice. Her voice lingered in his memory, its warmth, the way her face would light up, and how its sweetness made his broken soul ignite.

In the distance, the footsteps grew louder and the voices grew angrier. For a moment, Erik thought of the possibility of escaping them. There was a door behind one of his mirrors…but the thought passed. What was the point? He sighed heavily, wiping the tears away from his face. Picking up the veil off the floor, he placed it carefully on the model Christine. _If only it were so..._ The footsteps grew closer and now the faint sound of splashing water was heard. "Let them come." He muttered bitterly. The walls of his hellish prison seemed to close in around him. Slowly, relent began to seep into his mind. The murder of Joseph Buquet had been just a cruel game. The man was too close. Too close to discovering the secret that only she knew. The murder of Piangi, he know understood, had been needless. But he refused to grieve for this now.

Placing the mask firmly on his face, he turned grimly just as the first gunman arrived. "So, you have come to end it? You have come to end the terror of the Phantom of the Opera." He spat the words viciously in their faces. The gunman uneasily raised his gun. The men behind him egged him on. Erik undid his shirt, bearing his chest. How he longed to hear the crack of the gun, feel the pierce of that bullet, and die. To bleed, and in bleeding, finally passing on with that knowledge that what lay inside that carcass was human. "Do it!" he cried to the men. "Do it, monsieur! End their suffering!" He clenched his fists. "End mine." He said, in a low voice.

The gunman was young. Far too young. Erik remembered that age. Alone, dirty, caged, tormented. "The Living Corpse", the pseudonym he'd been given before "The Opera Ghost" and "The Phantom". He remembered the first sign of kindness he'd ever known in his wretched life. When Madame Giry, just a young dancer then, had rescued him from that hell, hiding him from their cruelty. It was only after he'd forgotten how to hate that he learned to mourn. Mourn for his loneliness, which would last until the last gasp of breath had escaped his twisted body. The gunman's face was fresh with indecisiveness, as he tried to bring the hammer down on the gun. The men behind him patted his shoulder in encouragement. Cheers of "Go on, Marcel! Kill him!" reverberated through the cold labyrinth. The boy named Marcel only looked at Erik's masked face with wide eyes. He felt a deep sense of pity for him. Those vultures expected a mere child to kill.

Erik recognized the sparkling fear that lay in those eyes that had not seen man's hatred. "Yes Marcel, shoot me. I give you my permission." He said softly to the boy. "Because that's what would give you satisfaction, wouldn't it, good monsieurs? To watch this loathsome animal die, alone in his lair, and leave this boy to do it for you? Will that erase your guilt? You do not dare think that will help you sleep at night, gentlemen." Erik's voice had gone from soft and compassionate to hard and just. He looked at Marcel to see that the boy had tears in his eyes, and his hands shook so violently that the gun fell from plunged into the water. Marcel buried his face in his hands, whether out of shame of sadness, Erik could not see. "It's alright. They won't make you do it." He said softly to the weeping boy. Marcel stood up straight, gathering his courage. "What are we? Animals? Let's go…" Marcel picked up his gun and glared at the frozen men. "Let's. Go." The boy had become a man before Erik's eyes.

One by one the men began to turn, each one glancing back at the Phantom, their disappointment visible. Marcel was the last one left. Without words, Erik pulled the lever that opened the gate. Marcel seemed hesitant. "I have no noose. No gun. No levers to pull or doors to open." Erik replied simply. Marcel took slow, curious steps toward him. His young face was alight with wonder, as if all his questions about life would be answered in Erik. He at last was close to him. "Please…let me see your face." He said breathlessly. Erik looked down, shrinking away like a vampire from the sunlight. He had earned Marcel's trust, and now the absolute bane of his life would have it shatter like thin glass. Marcel stepped back. "No…. I'm not here to mock you. I'm not afraid." _Afraid? This is about more than fear._ But Marcel had asked. He hadn't tricked Erik, or snuck up and ripped it off. He'd just asked, and quite politely.

"Why?" Erik looked up at the young man, the sadness seeping from his eyes to the rest of his hidden face. He could have sworn Marcel smiled for a second. "I enjoyed your opera." Erik was stunned. He had been expecting to hear any other reply. "I usually find them overwrought and tedious. Too melodramatic. Yours was…truthful." The harsh words of the cast sprung to Erik's mind. How it was called "ludicrous" and "a work of utter lunacy". Savoring his words of praise, Erik slowly took off his mask. It was the first time he did it out of his own free will. Closing his eyes, he waited for the all-too-familiar scream of gasp. He heard nothing. Marcel looked upon his deformed face with a sort of intelligent wonder. "I thought it would be worse." Erik exhaled loudly in disbelief. This child, who only knew the "horror stories" of the Phantom, looked at him for the first time without fear. It was incredible.

Marcel slung his gun over his shoulder and began to walk away. But as he turned around, another man was there. He was slightly older than Marcel. His hair was ruffled wildly and his clothes were disheveled, as if someone had failed to restrain him. "Olivier…what are you doing," Olivier strode towards Marcel with incredible speed. Erik noticed the wild look in his eyes. And the gun in his hands. Olivier punched Marcel squarely in the face, knocking him into the water. Marcel tried to pull himself up, but the man knocked him back again. "We had a job to do, you insolent coward!" Olivier brought down the hammer on the rifle and pointed it at Erik. Erik paid no attention. Adjusting the collar of his shirt, he glared at Olivier. Marcel held a hand to his bleeding nose, the other hand pulling at the back of Olivier's jacket. "Olivier, no…" He pleaded. "Shut up, Marcel!" He aimed once more. Erik sighed and began to walk toward his organ. "Now you see why I hide." He muttered, mostly to himself.

He looked upon the two quarrelling men with disdain. "Olivier! Stop!" Marcel tugged hard on Olivier's jacket, causing him to loose his balance. Dare Erik act? Olivier pulled himself up from the water, striking Marcel sharply in the head with the butt of the rifle. Marcel moaned and fell silent. Erik suddenly found himself consumed with rage. "Enough!" he shouted. He strode swiftly toward Olivier, his motions quick and cat-like. He grabbed Olivier's collar, shaking him hard. "You came to shoot me, so do it. Why hurt him? Why? What use is violence in this world? When you struck that boy, you condemned yourself to loneliness, just I as live." Erik let the man go. "But why take your satisfaction?" He stepped back a few paces. "I won't stop you." Olivier stood silent, his gun tight in his hand. After what seemed like an hour, Erik spoke. "Just as I thought." Marcel stirred, looking up at Erik. Erik just nodded and walked toward his organ. His fingers played the invisible keys, and he heard in his head a new song.

Nevertheless, the song was interrupted by a shot.

Erik turned slowly. Olivier stood, with his posture as straight as a rod, his gun aimed. It smoked and the air smelt of fire and gunpowder. The smirk of fulfillment on his face seemed more terrifying to him, than the sight of his own hideous visage. Marcel was on his knees, his face painted with sadness and failure. Erik cocked his head in an almost child-like curiosity. It took a while to notice. Second by second, realization, accompanied by pain, began to sear into his mind. He slowly put a hand to his chest, almost comforted by the wet and warm feeling that arrived when he touched his wound. He saw that his once pale hands were now smothered in redness. Looking at Olivier blankly, he found he could not hate this man. "Bravo, monsieur." He said calmly, before collapsing into the dark water.

The cold water began to close around him. Marcel shouted something indecipherable above the surface. The blood turned the water to a deep shade of red, like a rich wine. Yet Erik refused to die in a sea of blood, alone. He dragged himself towards the steps near the organ. Lying on his back, he placed his hands around his wound so that the bleeding might have stopped. He knew the attempt would be in vain, but what else could he do?

He saw a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. Young Meg Giry, like a cherub of heaven, had appeared in the tunnel. A quartet of dancers followed her. Upon seeing the sad sight in front of her, she said something quietly to the dancers and sent them away. She approached Erik slowly, her blue eyes wide with questions. For years, this man had been the subject of her fascination and horror, and now she saw him clearly, in flesh and blood. She knelt beside him, blood staining her ruffled blouse. He tried to tell her to leave him, but a bright flow of blood leaked out of him mouth. Even in his agony, Erik tried to cover the deformed side of his face with a bloody hand, for he did not wish to frighten her away. But Meg, after all, was a Giry, and did not seem to fear him the way others did. Instead, she pulled it away from his face, holding his red, shaking hand in her small white one.

Tears began to well up in her eyes. "I didn't know angels could bleed." She whispered. Erik's dying heart soared to her someone call him "angel" with such affection, as Christine once had. _Christine. _How he longed to see her before the end. Just the sight of her beautiful face would put him at peace. "Christine…" he said with longing, his voice a weak and pained whisper. Meg's face lit up with the very threshold of revelation. Kissing his hand, she then dashed down the tunnel. Erik shuddered at the seeping cold of her absence. He could hear Marcel's furious panting. Marcel rounded fiercely on Olivier, who stood frozen like a graveyard statue. "Go Olivier." He said with a low and deadly voice. He grabbed the man and shoved him toward the opening of the gate. "Leave now!" Olivier did not need to be told twice. He scurried away, like a cockroach when a light is turned on. His splashing bounds dissolved into the silence of the chamber, broken only by Erik's agonizing gasps and whimpers. Many moments passed, yet Erik did not feel the pain abating. _So it is to be slow… _he thought.

The angelic little dancer appeared once again, and this time, she was leading someone by the hand. Erik turned his head to look upon this new visitor. He closed his eyes in grief. It was not real. He had merely slipped into a dream. A cruel dream offered by death, as a last comfort. The dream was Christine. The vision of his angel walked slowly towards his bleeding form. How realistic it was! The vision's hands shook and cried silent tears. Then the vision touched his face with warm hands.

The vision was real.

His Christine had come back to him. "Christine." He whispered. Christine knelt beside him, putting a finger on his cold lips. "Shhh." She whispered soothingly. Gently moving his hands away from his wound, she inhaled sharply and fought back tears when her eyes fell upon the deep, bleeding hole. "No." she gasped. Erik did not see Raoul standing in the entrance. Raoul, who had hated Christine's "angel" beyond comparison, felt a feeling of unexpected sadness for the dying man. He suddenly realized that, in this twisted tale, Christine and he were not the real victims. The Phantom was. No man is born evil. Raoul realized that the phantom only became "The Phantom" after years of needless torture and cruelty. He continued to watch in silence as Christine held the disfigured man in her arms.

"You came back… You came back…" Erik whispered over and over. Christine felt her angel's heartbeat slow and his heart-tearing gasps lessen. This was beyond her comprehension. This man who inspired her to sing, who terrified her and enthralled her, her angel of music, was dying. "It's alright now. It won't hurt much longer." She said serenely, as if trying to calm a frightened child. Erik's amber eyes, once so bright and burning, had dulled as death slowly began to take him. Christine knew she had little time. She caressed his brow gently. Her heart sunk when she felt death's cruel and cold veil on his pale face. The distorted side of his face was covered in blood, contrasting sharply with the pale side of what would've been a handsome face, had it been whole. Tears began to well up in Erik's eyes, and he grabbed Christine's warm hand tightly. He looked into her beautiful brown eyes. "Christine, don't let me go." He pleaded, barely above a whisper.

Anyone in earshot's heart broke upon hearing his plea. The mysterious ghost, with every breath was becoming more and more human to the eyes of those watching. He feared death as much as any ordinary man. Christine leaned down and kissed his pale forehead gently. And then she began to sing.

_ Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world! _

_Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before_

_Let your soul take you where you long to be!_

The soprano's angelic voice seemed to dismay Erik's awaiting death, if only for a few moments.

_Forever more, you will belong to me… _

Even with tears in his eyes, Erik smiled. He feared nothing now. For who could have any fear and doubt in the presence of the true Angel of Music? "I love you." He whispered. It was final testament of the Phantom of the Opera would say. Erik's eyes looked upon his angel for the last time. Then they closed on the world forever. Erik was gone.

Christine barely breathed. In that moment, she realized her heart felt more love for him than she could imagine. She did love him, secretly. Oh so secretly. She didn't have the strength to feel for his heartbeat. She knew he was dead. Her fallen angel had died in her arms, and now she knew that her goodbye would mean forever.

_Angel of Music _

_Fallen Phantom_

_Sleep now at last, angel…_

Meg had wrapped her arms around Raoul's waist, yearning for comfort. The dancer had never seen death before. Raoul stood patiently, thinking of the right words to say when Christine returned to him. Marcel stood up. "More will be coming." He muttered, mostly to himself. He left the three of them alone in the candlelight. Christine laid him down gentle. She slowly walked through he waist deep water, her train flowing out behind her. She reached Raoul, reaching out for him. "Raoul, tell me what to do." She said numbly. Raoul gentle grabbed her shoulders, fearing she would faint and fall. She fell into his arms, sobbing. Raoul tried to comfort her, knowing nothing he could say would help. He couldn't take his eyes off of Erik's lifeless body. He expected it to all be a trick. But it only took a few minutes to know that the Opera ghost would never wake up.

"Come Christine, we should go…" Christine pulled away from him, her eyes wide with shock. "Raoul, I-……. I can't leave him here. Not like this. Not this place." Raoul embraced her reassuringly. Meg had begun to make her way toward Erik's prostrate form. "No, we won't. Madame Giry will," Raoul didn't have the heart to say, "bury him." "She will take care of him." Christine nodded and closed her eyes, leaning against him. "Meg?" Raoul called to the entranced dancer. She turned. "Will you please bring your mother here?" Meg nodded solemnly.

She passed Erik's body, toward the organ. It seemed to loom above her in grave monstrosity. She carefully picked up a pile of parchment. _Don Juan Triumphant , _she thought, i> _the original score /i> . _There was something sort of magical about it. The lyrics and notes were written in a spidery hand, and in ink as red as the blood that covered it's composer. Next to it, a red rose lay on the ivory keys, tied before the bloom with a black ribbon. She held it delicately in her hand. She went to Christine and gave it to her.

Embracing her friend tightly, Meg fought back the overwhelming urge to cry. She thought of what Christine had gone through tonight. She had to betray her angel. Meg could tell by the raw cuts around Raoul's neck that Christine had almost lost him, too. She thought it was all over, but she was once more brought back to this cold, dark place to see this man, who clearly loved her with all his soul, die in agony. To watch life slip away from a distance is hard enough. But to hold someone in your arms, and feel their chest stop rising, and watch their eyes close…

Meg wiped the tears off her face and walked down the tunnel to find her mother. After a few minutes, she heard Raoul follow. "Christine, come…" Raoul did not say it as a plea or a command. He knew she would follow. Christine stood stiffly, absorbing the place. Raoul touched her shoulder gently. "My dear, you must let him go." Christine nodded. "I'm coming. Do not wait for me." She replied softly. Raoul nodded, leaving her alone.

Christine looked around her. She looked at the candles and the dark beauty that used to be his home. She picked up the white mask floating in the water. Placing it in Erik's cold hands, she looked upon the Phantom of the Opera for the last time. "Goodbye." She whispered, her voice lost in the deafening silence. Christine did not pity the broken man at her feet. All his life he had known nothing but torment and hatred, and now, at long last, he was free. To wonder whether his tortured soul had been sent to heaven or hell was too trivial. As Christine passed the entrance of the labyrinth, she thought one final thought of him. She thought: _Hell wanted the murderer. Heaven needed the musician._ There wasn't a day after that when her heart did not find him.


	2. Requiem

Madame Giry had come as she always did, alone. The rapping of her cane upon the stone echoed in the silence, for it stood as the only requiem for the dead genius. She sighed deeply. The blood had dried and stiffened on his clothing and in his brown hair. The expression on his malformed face was that of a sort of frightened peace. Madame Giry, who knew the complexity of Erik's emotions all too well, knew the source of this strange, yet beautiful appearance. He was frightened of the judgment that awaited him beyond our world, but as peace knowing the life of sorrow was at last ending. The shadow of morbidity that seemed to hang in the vastness of the underground layer at last seemed gone. When Meg had told her of the events that had occurred, Madame Giry had been, to say the least, surprised. By the disappointed looks from the returning soldiers, she'd thought Erik had, once again, eluded those who sought him out. But then Miss Daeë had come also, with the young Vicomte. How old she seemed, how wasted. She had even noticed the blood on the young singer's white dress, but Madame Giry had chosen to remain naïve. But then Meg told her what had taken place. Madame Giry marveled at her daughter's sensitivity when Meg told of how she'd tried to comfort him.

Now here she stood, Erik broken at her feet. All she'd wanted was to hide him. Free this tortured soul from the cruelties of the world. She knew that Erik would not want her to this of his death as her failure. He had, after all, chosen to meet his fate, instead of fleeing from it. Erik could always be described in one word: extreme. Born with extreme talent and extreme compassion, he had also, through his life of ruin, become extremely sensitive and extremely secretive. And being only one man, life filled with such emotion was a likely candidate for madness. He knew how to feel, and certainly how to love, but when called upon to act, all he knew was hatred.

Going about his organ, looking through his things, she came upon a small piece of paper. It seemed at first to have no significance. It contained only once sentence, written in his signature red ink. _Is this coffin ever after? _it read. It lay on top of his _Don Juan_ score, so it must have been recent. She knelt down and cradled him in her arms for a minute, her last act to the Phantom an act of motherly sorrow.

Though the aged woman looked frail, she had little trouble carrying the man. Beneath her shrouding shawl and black dressed were aged, yet powerful limbs toned and strengthened by years of ballet. And as she carried him out of the tunnel in the night, she realized that she'd left his mask behind. She stood for several moments, torn between whether or not to bury it with him. He hated it and needed it. He was the mask, and it was he. There_was_ no Phantom without that infamous mask. She at last decided to leave it. He would not need it in the next world.

Snow fell outside the Paris Opera House. She came out of the tunnel to a small courtyard in the back. Upon hearing of poor Erik's death, she'd convinced Joseph Buquet's replacement to dig a grave and craft a coffin. He was gone by the time she came out. She sighed, seeing the crude wooden box that was to hide him away forever. If his face had been normal, he would be a renowned genius to the art world, and would be buried in splendor. But here, he was left with a lonely grave and a poor coffin. She gently placed the musician's broken body in the box. She saw Meg patiently waiting in her little blue cloak. She had a bowl of water and a white cloth. The dancer knelt down in the snow, next to the coffin. Without asking for permission, she dipped the cloth in the water and began to wash off the blood on his face and in his hair. Madame Giry almost smiled. Her daughter was careful, as if she did not wish to hurt him. "There. Much better." She whispered.

Madame Giry and Meg looked upon the Phantom one last time, before Madame Giry nailed the lid to the coffin. "Goodbye, Erik." Said Madame Giry, with an air of wistfulness. Meg looked at her in confusion. "Yes, he had a name." she replied simply But after she was done, she was faced with a dilemma. How would she get the coffin into the hole? She couldn't just push it in. It might break or land on its side. She heard a door open. Out walked the managers themselves, M. Andre and M. Firmin. They too had been notified of Erik's death. Madame Giry knew Andre to be slightly more sensitive to his surroundings than Firmin. Both men nodded to her as they came out. "We thought you might be out here." Said Andre, staring in awe at the coffin. "This is?…" asked Firmin. Madame Giry nodded. "Your Opera Ghost, monsieur."

There was an uncomfortable silence that followed. "Gentlemen, I have a problem. I cannot get this coffin into the ground by myself." Madame Giry did not ask for their help. But they seemed to respond. "I'll get some rope." Said Firmin, leaving the three of them alone. Andre knelt down beside the coffin, touching it gingerly, as of it were hot. "Coffins always seem so small." He said softly. "He must have had a hard life." Madame Giry savored his compassion. It was a warm welcome. She nodded again as she stood. Soon, Firmin returned with two long pieces of rope. They were tightly tied to each end of the coffin and it was slowly lowered into the ground. They left Madame Giry and Meg shovel the dirt onto the grave. The two dancers would be the Phantom of the Opera's soul mourners.

Madame Giry returned the next day to find a fresh red rose with a beautiful diamond ring on the stem. It stood out brightly in the snow, the rose as red as blood and the ring as bright as the stars. She smiled. As she walked away, she thought: _Is this coffin ever after?_ But remembering the rose, she thought_ Erik, at last you are loved. That coffin keeps nothing as long as she keeps your heart. _


End file.
